


Should or shouldn't

by Escritora2Aliasfox



Series: The internet is for porn porn porn [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escritora2Aliasfox/pseuds/Escritora2Aliasfox
Summary: "... you where eating your teacher. the chubby one, with glasses. that one"This work is marked as under-age just in case, but that is not especified, so if it bothers you, you can think otherwise.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I could not sleep, and i was in a bad mood.  
> I had Terry Pretchet's books around and i had noticed i hadn't write any sex in my ao3 acount.  
> Plus, i had never found anything like this 'cause no one asked for it. So meh.
> 
> Bedsides, Valentine´s was not long ago, and i had done nothing for it 'cause i had other issues at home. So! Happy NotValentine's night!

Profesor Aziraphale speaks of literature with quite the passion, and knows language (several languajes, actualy) like the back of his hand. He keeps rambling with his slow, sweet, deep voice while you just can’t help daydreaming while looking at him.

Yes, he is much fucking older than you, but that is only part of his atractive. Yes, he is kind of chubby, but you don’t find his casual belly discouraging at all. It does fit his glasses and his clothes. (which could only fit him. there must, always be an exception to the rule) He suddenly turns from the blackboard and catches you staring, crounched over you desk, face resting on a hand, with ausent expression. His stormy blue eyes startle you, but you just can’t get yours of them.

“when was that, Name?” you rise your face two centimeters, looking like a deer facing the lights, and mumble “…uh?” great. You just become stupider automatically in his presence. Just like when reading a good book, but being too tired and not catching any of the content, you just didn’t get any of what he was saying. So invested as you where on his voice. Was he asking for a date? But weren’t you at languaje?

Profesor Aziraphale lowers his eyes and masages his eyes under his glasses. Then, he sighes. “please, stay to talk to me after class” he says. And you nod with a tight line in your mouth, before leaving your face crumble on the table.

Everyone gets up like something was after them, as soon as they hear the ring. You stay in your place, not one effort to gather your things into your bag.

The teacher looks at you form above. His face looks toughfull and a bit pityfull.

“what is the matter, Name?” “uh… nothing, really…” “are you sure? Are you sleeping right?” “…” you tighten on your seat. Last night was horrible. You could not sleep, becouse of a stupid nightmare, and the noises next room, and you expent a long time deciding if it was worth it to give sleep up at all, and then the posibility of masturbation came to mind, and you ended up trying, and this time you where so invested you used both your hands, and went a little further, and made sure to blend your best memories of Mr. Fell with your (already) dirty and extensive imagination, and it was wonderfull and … and… you hadn’t sleep at all when the alarm in your phone sounded, and (of course!) you needed a shower… …what was all this about?

“Name!” You stiffen. “I asked, becouse you seem quite absent today” He insisted.  
“oh… yes. i didn’t sleep well last night” “well, i’m sorry for that, dear” he said, and sat down on his place, quite close to yours, a little to the side. “but, also, im worried for your developement. You see, you do seem invested in literature, and languaje. Eager, even, but your califications are certainly decreasing…”

“oh! Is that… well, you see, sir, i do love books. I love stories and i really enjoy them. i can read and write and retell them detail by detail, but… when it comes to dates, and numbers and conjugations… i’m afraid i’m useless”

You get up, feeling a bit more confident on his presence, ready to finish the chat. You walk on front of the pupiter and rest your weight on your back and hands there. To add a bit of humor to your words, you lik your lips at the end of your sentence with a pop.

Your teacher relies back on his chair, looking somewhere else, his gaze lost, his face serious.

“…mr. Fell?” He rised his head, his gaze still apart. “how could i help you…? What could be done?” “…oh, well, whenever i had troubles with any study, i would get clases and it would be eased…” He looked at you, his brows lifted. “its just…i don’t think i got the money right now…”

“Maybe i could help there” he said, casually “It is always nice to chat with you. Some chatting about grammar over tea might help?”  
…

Aziraphale and you met quite ofthen at the library, or the coffee, and you would either exchange a friendly nod or a nice chat. You don’t really give a shit what anyone might think. Being a book lover you always had an easy way with languaje teachers… but with him you felt in the mood for talking over food, over cinema, while walking somewhere… you wanted to get to meet him, and know him a bit better, you felt curious for the touch of those curls and the thousand difernt ways his gaze could…

Shit. You where doing it again. Stop daydreaming over your teacher!! If ever anyone would find out, it would be the end of you. (life wasnt easy being a bookworm already)  
You shouldn’t have acepted his sugestion. You shouldn’t. …but you where curious for his place.  
…

It was like an old misterious library in a movie. There where books everywhere. Old and big and small and put in place and out of place and all over the place! Some where still open and other had marks and you wondered what they where abouth and how could he read many at a time and if he knew them all and what diferent things they where about and…  
And you had one of the nicest chats of your life, and some tea with biscuits (no wonder he was a bit overweihted, they where delicious!) and… and then… then…

You had your back resting on one of the bookstands and your hands carasing his soulders, and the base of his neck, trhou the shirt. Your lips on his.

How did this happen? Your were talking of the books he had there, and he left one on his place, and doing so he was croaching closer, but you couldn’t back off ‘cause of the bookstand… and then there was a silence and the proximety and the silence, and the smell and the proximety…

And the taste of those biscuits on his mouth when your tounge got past his soft lips.

Your abscent mind was somehow still conscient that this wouldn’t last forever, and there might not be other chance. You kept kissing, deep, slow. Combining pecks and tounge, and lip-shucking and kisses and muzzles down his jaw, to his neck, and back up to peck at his lips, and further to muzzle his face on the way over to bite his ear  
(you guided him to crouch lower, you where slightly conscient of his hands on your hair and back and his gasps and moans vibrating on your lips) and back to his neck, kissing and biting everything the collar of his shirt would allow and gently pushing it a bit…’til it broke, and then kissing lower and opening the shirt further, and back up to kiss and lick and grace with open mouth, toung and teeth his neck, chin, up to his mouth…

He pushes you away gently. You go back to conciousness. You are literally eating your teacher. The middle aged-chubby one. You think you register him kissing and carassing back thou, and some moans…

He tries to find words, or a definitive stance, but he can’t take one step away. He is just there, over you, against the bookshelf. You both breathe hardly, and he tries to say something, but he can’t. He lowers his head in a loss, and you take the chance to gently kis him again. He kisses back shyly but again, holds you back. with a carass of faces he gives you space to move and speakes with souless voice.

“i think its if best that you leave” and then, slowly, silently, just a hused “yes” left behind, you leave.  
…

“ahaha! Cheers for that! how was the kissing?” Aziraphale burried his face under his arms, and the wine bottles around him in the table. “its my studient! And its under age!!  
…i think…” he added, under the half-drunk, casual-questioning graze of his co-worker friend. “hold it, how much under age…?”

Aziraphale looked at him, shoulders crouched “does it matter!?” “ah, yes! you see, if you are wondering if it is or not actually underage… then’s old enough anyways…” “how can you say that?!” “well you see”

Crowley changed his stance, pointing at him, to remark his point: take a look at history… “oh no!...” “no, listen, this may be the solution to your problem: there have been kings and queens and wariors and whatnot who governed, and gave birdth and… stuff… at the age of fucking fourteen! Virgin Marie, herself…”

“Don’t you dare!” “She was twelve! Ok? Damnit. True, many kids now are overprotected, or just stupid, and stuff, you always get that everywhere… but this kid…”

“don’t say kid, just… don’t. Makes me sound…” “ok, your temptation, who kissed you like That… then” “oh!” “well, you say likes books, and long chats over coffee, and did kiss you like That! so, for me? old enough. Fuck it. The good way, you know. How bad can it be? If you loose your job, then you can dedicate yourself to your veloved books…”

“you are an evil bastard” “and you’re too good. Angel”  
…

He keeps writing in the blackboard, not turning, not saying one word, and when he turns around he doesn’t look at anyone. He just orders the whole class to analyce the poem and goes back to his seat. Most of them groan, but you, you take it personal.

You stare at him the same you have been ‘till now. Serious, thoughfull, and a bit hurt. He avoids your eyes, mostly, and checks some papers.

You take your sweet time in copying the thing, knowing even if you manage, it will not be correct.  
It was Geoffrey Chausenet’s Saint Valentine’s balade, loosely translated…

“there sat a queen who was more  
Lovely by far than any other creature,  
Just as the summer sun outshines the stars…”

You stop with a sigh and look up at him. And you find him staring.  
He is half leaned back, one arm on the table, serious, dark glaced eyes stuck on yours thoru the glasses.

And you hold each other’s stare for a few, eternal seconds. Then you turn back to the blackboard, and onto the page. And do your duty.

What does this mean? What does he mean? Does it mean anything at all, or it is meant to be meaningless? You just try your best, lazyly, and keep messing the lyrics while trying not to remember your mouth posessing every peace of skin of his at your reach just last afternoon…

Aziraphale takes all of the pages back and checks them like usual, while the class makes now some excercises… “Name. Please, stay after class to talk allright?”

It comes so easyly you are shocked. Confused. You look back, but he does not even. He keeps checking poems.  
…

Every one rushes out like birds startled by a sudden noise. You two stay still throu the noise, and then the silence.

And the silence goes back and forth between the two of you like the doves in another poem.

“why did you call me?” “…your exercise is wrong. You do need to work better on it”  
“I already know that. We both do. Why the fuck did you need to be alone with me and why tha fuck it had to be that poem?”  
Aziraphale lifted his tone. “watch your languaje!” a beat.he lowers his eyes “ … i just thoug, we should speak of this…”

You got up.

“this, what.” “…i don’t know” “…why that piece? And not any other?” “…i do not know. I think i am confused…” You walk up to him.  
“…i don’t know how to explain in words, but, well, my feelings seem to have a, defined flow” 

You slowly, but surely take his hand, and fidget with his fingers, while rising it to the height of your lips. Between the two of you, your hands, fingers enlazed.  
And you both pass from looking at them and look a each other. He has a sad gaze.

“we shouldn’t…” “maybe we should” … and without thinking, slowly you tilt closer to each other, and follows a kiss  
It is a small kiss, lips pressing to lips, then he makes a gesture of denial with the head (or maybe a shake) and another kiss, and another one, and another one…

You gasp when tounge meets tounge, not sure who started it, but it is warm and safe and soft… and his hands, holding your sides, carassing up and down…  
You reach your hand up between the two of you, and carass his hair… (oh, godnes) now you won’t stop doing that, like ever. Its like the belly of a cat: difficul to describe, but so perfect…

A couple of kids run by the door while laughting and exclaiming something. Not far by, follows the echo of a teacher telling them not to run in the corridors. And the spell breaks.

You both stop kissing and stay still, like deers in the headlights. He looks at the door, so close, so much, someone looking throu the glass could see you.  
You look up. His face is so close to yours, and the rest of you… well. He holds you in a nealy possesive manner, against the blackboard (when did you turn around?) and only now you notice the yesk base pressing the back of your thights.

He walks away backwards, like he was scared. And that changes nothing. You are both still gasping, and still have the feeling of warm body and soft hands.

It is odd for you how no one notices, the way you two walk out the class.  
It is magic, how you two stand at the coffee, both leaning in the stand, just chatting.  
And you both smile, and dance around what is truly there, and no one notices.  
And the rest of the day both of you are so happy. Like idiots.  
…

He didn’t tell you to come back. You didn’t decide if you’ll go on with the classes, but still, after turning it over in your head again and again, you appear at his door, the next day at the same hour.  
He opens, unsure. “i didn’t know if you...” and he lets you in.

With little words, he makes tea, and you both sit. And little by little you chat, and then (you don’t remember what he said) he makes you laught.

And then something happens (it must have happen, at some point) becouse he is still sitting, but you are standing, leaning into him, kissing him.  
He gets up and kisses you against the table. And the carasses go back and fort. And breaths, and kisses.

It is first time he kisses your neck, and your breath catches. His lips are soft and warm, but firm against your neck, marking the spot where then goes his tounge, and a bit of teeth, and slowly, he muzles down to your clabicle, disarming your shirt to carass as far as the shoulder, and back up your neck, to your ear, where he wishpers your name.

Was it at the same time, or sooner, when you where sitting in the table legs on his sides? Who cares, but now you use your legs to press him against you, and there you feel his erection. And there is a moan coming out of the deepest part of you, and a groan on his throat.

And just like that you are half flat on the table, him over you, deboring you, hands up and down, ripping clothes out of the way, carasses more urgent, mouth everywhere.

He stops. And tryes to catch his breath. Your hand tilts his face towards you.

“what is it?” he hesitates “…your first time… should be…” you laught, and you rise forward, getting him presed into you. “it is not my first time” “wha… ah!” “i want you.”  
“ahh. You little…”  
And there is no more waiting. He pushes, and when your body can not go further against the table it molds, and he is in you. A define, long moan comes out, but he is right there, face in yours, shushing you, and slowly, little by little he pushes again, and again, and as you gasp, his kisses, so demanding.

You hold onto him and his trusts keeps going back and forth, possesing you. Between gasps and kisses to the mouth, to the neck, and back to the mouth, the pace fastenes.

If anyone pecks throu the darkened windows of the shop they will see you fucking in the table, some pieces of cloth still holding from you. If they do, they will hear. No way they don’t. half way between gasp and scream, and groan. Again and again and again, faster, and harder.

It is so hot. So hard the way he fastenes and his expresion when he is reaching his climax. He gorans and he bites you without warning, so harsh, and you can’t hold back a cry. He then is breathing so hard, and without words, he lowers one hand to where you are still joined. …jus a little bit higher.

You nearly cry again. But after some hesitation you hold onto him. and he keeps mobing, deep, firm, slick, soft and insistent, hard. His body against yours, your mouth on his clavicle, you legs tremble. And then it comes. His fingers press harder and faster as he feels you coming, and you come, loosing for a moment all of yourself.

You stay like that, and then he moves, he kises you in your forehead, and he’s still again. You breath deeply.

“it is odd…” you say. “uhm?” “…the weight, of your body over mine. I like it. I like how it feels” he nests his head between your head and shoulder. This position will get unconfortable very soon, but not jet…

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, yeah. this was tricky to write 'cause i wanted the OC to be sexless so anyone could get into it. That made the sex scene quite bad, don't you think? But one has to push theyr boundaries.
> 
> (as i was writing it, i was thinking of the character as a boy, and than i had to fix some paghraphs 'cause during the chat with Crowley they were calling it a "him"  
> (yes, Crowley said 'fuck him. the good way')
> 
> Then near the end i was thinking of a girl again, and it started as a girl in Crowley's...  
> oh well. I'm rambling. hope you'l like it.


End file.
